


Rake the Springtime Across Your Sheet

by pratz



Series: This Tornado Loves You [2]
Category: Love Live! Sunshine!!
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pratz/pseuds/pratz
Summary: Ten years into the future, Kanan is still playing dense and Mari's patience is wearing thin.





	Rake the Springtime Across Your Sheet

**Rake the Springtime Across Your Sheet**

Author: pratz

 

Three in the morning finds Kanan in front of the door to Mari’s suite, key card in her hand and hesitation in her heart. San Francisco is cold in June, and now she feels even colder. The Gloom, locals call it. How apt, Kanan thinks. She swallows whatever feeling is already on the tip of her tongue, steels herself, and swipes the card to unlock the door. The dim light of the suite demands her eyes to adjust, and for a second she can’t really recognize anything. Not a figure, not one of the only two people in the world who can tell her to come at 3 AM and she will do just so.

In the dark she calls out for her longtime best friend. “In here,” a voice answers from the direction of the kitchen. Dia sits on one of the stools in the bar, elbows on the counter top. She’s still dressed in her royal blue gown, courtesy of last night’s reception to celebrate Giannini International’s newest boutique hotel in— _Surprise, surprise_ , Kanan thinks dryly—the birthplace of [the Giannini family fortune](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amadeo_Giannini). As if San Francisco needs another hotel, really. Kanan could care less if it’s not for the fact that Dia is the newly appointed branch manager to serve under the familiar, international face of the group—the chairman’s daughter herself.

She takes off her coat, folds it over her arms, and walks towards Dia. “How was the party?” she asks, dumb and customary, because she doesn’t know what else to ask.

“It was good,” Dia replies, standard and customary, which does not escape Kanan’s observation. “Mari always knows how to throw a party.” She finishes the orange juice in her tall glass. “Right. So.” She pushes her stool back. “Now that you’re here, I’m taking my leave.”

“Wait. What?”

Dia pauses in mid-rise and fixes Kanan a look, the very look Kanan has long accustomed to, the one that tells her Dia can and will not tolerate façade or graceless self-saving. “You know what they say about drunk people, I’m sure.” Dia gestures at the couch in the living room with her thumb. It is only then that Kanan spots the lump on the couch—Mari.

“How drunk is she?”

“Smashed.”

“Why? And you didn’t stop her? She’s your boss.”

“Exactly the reason _I_ couldn’t chew her out in public.”

 _Oh_.

“I’m sure none of us wants a lecture right now, so I’ll save it for the morning,” Dia pauses to check the watch on the oven, “which is only a couple hours from now.” She takes her coat from the back of her stool. “Make sure she rehydrates, alright. We’re scheduled to have brunch with the city council.” She pats Kanan’s right shoulder.

“You’re aware that public intoxication is a misdemeanor here, not a crime, right?” she says. Again, Dia fixes her a look, this time sharper, more heated. “What?” she snaps, half irritated and half frightened by Dia’s temperance.

“Why are you whining?”

“Why are you doing _this_ to me?” she shoots back.

“Heaven above, here we go again.” Kanan is then graced by the appearance of Dramatic Dia, complete with a long sigh and a perfect eye roll. “Look, I love you—I love the two of you even though god knows I more than deserve to bury you two alive, but I’ve been a witness to _this_ for—what—how many times? You do the counting. Whatever it is that made you shy away from party is the same reason you need to be here right now.” She swiftly raises a finger to Kanan’s face. “And no, I don’t want to hear anything but a solid _yes_ from you.”

In defeat, Kanan mumbles, “Yes.”

Only then Dia softens. “I thought you’ve learned your lesson years ago.” She squeezes Kanan’s arm in a gesture of support and understanding. Dia walks to Mari on the couch, shaking her gently to rouse her. “Mari, I’m leaving, okay, but I’ll drop by in the morning. Do you want anything?”

Mari’s response comes in the form of an arm that flails around, almost smacking Dia in the face, a muffled groan, and an alcohol-doused hoarse voice. “Unless you can bring the pigheaded old fool, naaah.”

“Well, in that case I’m happy to let you know that the pigheaded old fool is here,” Dia returns. This time Mari’s arm only misses Dia’s face by an inch. “Thank me later by showing up sober for our brunch meeting tomorrow.”

Mari produces another long groan mixed with a string of unintelligible swear words. No matter how many times Kanan has dealt with American English in her multiple visits to the US, she’s still not used to the colloquial. Mari and Dia are much better, both having attended the same business school here, and as she walks Dia to the door she’s once again reminded of all the time Dia knows more about Mari, the night’s party being one of the examples. She’s tried to reason that for once 5,000 miles lie between Tokyo and San Francisco. It still doesn’t make her feel any better, though.

“Talk to her, alright?” Dia says at the door, as if knowing her thoughts.

“Thanks, Dia.” She rubs the back of her neck. “And sorry,” she adds.

“Well, it’s the least I can do after she introduced me to Ayase Eli.” In a swift second, the somberness goes out of Dia’s eyes and the more animated self appears, fueled by childlike passion. “Kanan, you have no idea how cool she is in person. Like, she’s beyond my imagination. Beyond everything, anything. Just. Like, wow. Whole another level of—”

“Good night, Dia. See you tomorrow.” She closes the door.

When she returns to the couch, Mari has rolled over and now curls into herself to lie on her side. She pats the space near the curve of her stomach, her one-shoulder dress slipping dangerously low on her arm, and closes her eyes. Kanan knows the gesture well— _The ball is on your court, Kanan_ —so she follows and sits where Mari wants her. For some time, no one speaks. Kanan strokes the shoulder of Mari’s dress, adjusting it. Mari lets her, but she keeps her eyes closed.

Kanan takes a better look at her. Comes morning she knows either the _[Chronicle](http://www.sfchronicle.com/)_  or the _[Examiner](http://www.sfexaminer.com/)_  or both will have a picture of Mari in this dress, flawless make up and smile and all, shaking hands with some important men in pressed suits. Their headline will read like something along the line of “Giannini International’s impeccable Mari Ohara-Giannini dazes patrons at party.” The Gianninis have a long history in San Francisco: Mari’s great-grandfather founded America’s largest bank, and her grandparents co-sponsored the Italian-American network. Two years ago, a week before Mari’s appointment to Giannini International’s West Coast branch, the _Chronicle_ published an old photograph of the Ohara-Gianninis with the sleeping baby Mari on her father’s shoulder, tiny fist against her cheek, unbound hair half hiding her face. Mari’s coming to the city is simply a returning of the prodigal child, the press claimed. Kanan doesn’t read newspapers much especially when she’s at work, but she can acknowledge that she’s not immune to Mari’s charm even when she’s so young. Then again, she wonders, who is?

Mari still sleeps like the child on that picture. Kanan’s hand moves on its own volition to sweep the loose hair that has fallen over Mari’s cheek, slipping it behind her ear, and Mari scrunches her nose. Now this, Kanan thinks, is familiar: this one person who prefers her morning coffee with a lot of milk and no sugar; who shows her flair not because she’s a boast but because she’s confident in herself; who knows, despite her being half the world away from Tokyo, whenever Kanan wakes up with a start at four in the morning in her tiny Meguro-ku apartment, itching to go on an impromptu diving; who knows whenever Dia is imposing a mad working regiment on herself and conspires with Kanan to drag her away from her office (Mari usually texts, ‘Monterey is just an hour from San Fran. Get your ass here. #SaveDia’); who encouraged her to finish her research at the [Monterey Bay Aquarium](http://www.montereybayaquarium.org/) so that she could just “drop by unannounced and nag her;” who gave Kanan a keycard to her suite (“In case of emergency.”); who, for Kanan’s last birthday, drove her all the way in a convertible from scenic Twin Peaks to the JFK Drive in the Golden Gate Park to [look for bison](https://goldengatepark.com/buffalo-paddock.html) amidst the early morning fog that slowly crept between cypress and eucalyptus trees, to a brunch at the [Presidio Social Club](http://www.presidiosocialclub.com/), where Mari had private-ordered horned turban snails—Kanan’s favorite—even though the restaurant did not have it on their menu, and to the [Inn at the Presidio](http://www.innatthepresidio.com/), where they spent the rest of the day in between the sheets. Kanan has never been so sore, so happily sore in her life.

“I could have seven lifetimes and still they won’t be long enough for me to listen to your list of Why Mari is Awesome,” Dia once told her.

Sighing, she wriggles a finger into Mari’s closed fist and tries to pry her fingers loose. To a partial success, seemingly, because Mari suddenly covers her mouth with said hand. “Imma—‘ick,” she gurgles behind her palm. With a wince, Kanan helps her to her feet and to the bathroom. She holds Mari’s hair back as Mari empties her stomach into the toilet, silently taking pleasure in running her fingers through Mari’s soft blond locks. When Mari is left with only a few dry heaves, Kanan reaches over to fill an empty glass from the sink with tap water.

Done with rinsing her mouth, Mari spits into the toilet for one last time and flushes it. She wipes the back of her hand across her mouth and turns to Kanan. She looks tired, but still so, so beautiful that Kanan just wants to hug her until Dia comes barging in. “I’m—” Mari swallows once, twice, “—okay. I’m okay now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Promise. You can go home now.”

There’s steel in Mari’s voice that doesn’t sit well with Kanan, a faint reminder of that fateful slap from a long time ago. “I’m sure Dia has told you this as well, but it’s best that somebody stays with you when you’re not fully sober.”

“It’s best that somebody stays with you when you’re not fully sober,” Mari repeats, a worn chuckle escaping her lips. She hands Kanan the now empty glass and doesn’t resist when Kanan steadies her. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, somebody.”

She definitely doesn’t like that. “How many drinks did you have?”

Mari sits down on the closed lid of the toilet bowl. “Four? Ten? Can’t remember.”

“Mari,” Kanan says, drawling the two syllables purposely. “I’m serious.”

“Hi, serious. I’m Mari, but you’ve known that.”

Kanan pushes down the irritation—and, unreasonably, guilt—at the poor joke. She stands in front of Mari, pulls Mari’s head forward by the back of her neck so that her forehead rests on Kanan’s stomach, and loops her arms around Mari’s shoulders. Mari’s own move to circle Kanan’s thighs. “Well?” she tries again.

“Well what?”

“Care to tell me what’s got you this drunk?”

“I’m not drunk, just tipsy. It’s just limoncello.” Despite her clipped tone, Mari nuzzles into her stomach. “I’m part Italian. Limoncello is in my blood.”

“You’re from Genoa, and your beloved limoncello is from the south.”

“Well, we Genoese travel often. You know who else is from Genoa? Christopher Columbus.”

She holds Mari tighter, closer to her. “If this is about the party, I’m sorry.” Years of experience have taught her that whenever Mari spews out nonsensical rambles, a hug is the best way to calm her.

Minutes of silence follow her apology. Fingers rough from seawater and hard work thread through blond hair. Lithe fingers dainty and more fitting to be kissed by princes or mogul heirs caress the back of Kanan’s knees. After a while, Kanan hears a sigh and Mari disentangles herself, putting some distance between them. Eyes narrowed, Mari opens her mouth but then changes her mind and closes it without saying anything. Instead, she returns to her previous position, head against Kanan’s stomach and arms around Kanan’s legs.

“I’m still mad at you,” Mari says, voice muffled by Kanan’s sweater.

 _I know_ , she wants to say. _I’m sorry_ , she doesn’t say again. It all started as a simple announcement: Kanan, there will be a function to celebrate the opening of our newest hotel. Technically, it’s a party for Dia. My newest Bay Area manager—how cool is that? We can go together to pick your dress. And everything unraveled: I actually have a review coming soon. I can’t afford to be careless at this stage. I don’t think I can make it. Sorry, Mari. It took her only five minutes to reject Mari’s invitation, and yet she’s been spending her time ever since focusing on its consequence instead of on her review. Back then, she spent two years believing she was doing Mari a favor, and a slap woke her up. Now, she’s not sure if she even has the courage to ask for another wake up call, with or without a slap.

She’s fully aware that Uranohoshi was a mere test for Mari. If Mari could prevent the school from closing, she could be trusted with a larger, more complicated project. And Mari did. If nowadays she’s walking with an easy stride, it’s because she works hard for it. She doesn’t get to her position by simply flaunting the fact that she’s part of the family owner. Not a prodigal child, but a prodigy. No longer only an Ohara, but also a Giannini. Kanan can’t— _won’t_ —take that from her.

In the end she says nothing, and Mari releases herself from Kanan’s loose embrace. “Alright,” Mari says, voice resigned and jaded. Using Kanan’s hands, she pulls herself up, wobbling a little, and turns around. “Can you just help unzip me? I don’t want to wear this to bed.” She looks at Kanan over her shoulder. “Kanan?”

She wants to kiss that shoulder. “Yes.” Her fingers tremble when she eases the zipper down, exposing more skin to her eyes. In the bright light of the bathroom, it calls to her the memories of many summers in a quiet city by the bay. The heat, the sea, and Mari. What she wouldn’t give to have all those times back. Dear gods, she wants to kiss that shoulder.

She lets go once the zipper hits the bottom stop, reaching to her left to grab a bathrobe hung on the wall. Before she can hand it to Mari, Mari swirls and leans into her, pushing her upper body—her _bare_ upper body—to back Kanan into the sink.

“Tell me,” Mari hisses through gritted teeth, “how more forward I should be so that you will get it.”

“G-get it?” She doesn’t mean to stutter, but she does. Mari has that kind of power to make people do, and feel, things they don’t mean.

“Kanan, I’m literally standing half naked in front of you, and you’re just—” Mari pulls at her own hair, “stupidly _watching_.” She lands a punch on Kanan’s arm. “Another person would’ve just pounced and ripped my dress off of me. You—you just never want to take the lead at anything, do you?"

She swallows. _But that’s a $24,000 dress_ , she wants to argue.

Mari punches her once again, this time on her left shoulder. This time it makes her recoil. Mari delights in her expression. “Good,” she says. “You’re due for a ten years-worth slugging.” Her hands travel lower to the hem of Kanan’s sweater. When she’s just about to lift the sweater, Kanan stops her hands. “Oh, you want to stop being so passive now?”

“Well, the last time I was being so passive I hurt you really bad.”

“For two years,” Mari appends. In spite of the frustration that rushes out of her, she still scrunches her nose at the sight of Kanan’s grimace.

“And I’ve been repenting myself of what I did back then.”

Mari lets go of Kanan’s sweater so abruptly she almost loses her own balance. “Is that what—” her arms flail, hands clawing and unclawing, “ _this_ is all about? Paying off your debt?” With every word spoken, her voice rises in pitch.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Kanan says. “Come on. You’re drunk—”

“As if you never got drunk.”

“Not in public.”

“Yeah, just in Yō’s bed.”

That’s low, and even Mari immediately looks remorseful at the outburst.

“That was just one time, and it meant nothing,” Kanan counters. “You slept with more people after I did that!”

“People who are not friends,” Mari chokes out. “People who are not one of your _closest_ childhood best friends.”

Just like that, she sags against Kanan. Mari has always been taller, but in the moment she feels so small, so light in Kanan’s arms that Kanan does want to slug herself for being an inattentive asshole. Has Mari lost weight lately? Has she been eating well? Has she been pushing herself too hard at work?

“Look,” Mari says after a long minute. “Can we not fight about this again? I’m tired.”

What else can she do but agreeing? Helping Mari get out of the dress, which already has a tear on its side, she wraps Mari in the bathrobe she’s been clutching. She’s been to the suite so often that she remembers the direction of the bedroom even in the dark. Sitting Mari down on the large bed, she tells her that she’ll be right back. She gets a new glass of water from the kitchen and the aspirin bottle from the shelves behind the bathroom mirror. “Drink,” she says as she gives Mari the glass. After Mari has drunk half of it, Kanan hands her the aspirin. Mari pops two into her mouth, finishes her water, and lies on her back. Kanan sits, cautious, at the end of the bed.

Which Mari notices. “Why are you so far away?” Only then Kanan goes to lie beside Mari, supporting her head with a hand and throwing the other across Mari’s midriff. Mari turns her head to look at Kanan. “How is it that I’m mad at you but still want you to just hold me?”

Chuckling, Kanan grasps Mari’s fingers. “The feeling is mutual.”

“Nine out of ten times you’re so dense. You know that, right?” Mari rolls to throw a leg over Kanan’s waist, her bathrobe sliding open. Fitting herself to Kanan’s front, she tucks her head under Kanan’s chin, nose on the dip between Kanan’s collarbones. She groans, long and loud. “Heaven knows why I want to keep such a frustrating girlfriend.”

Kanan stills. Now _that_ is a pressing issue they really should talk about.

Mari notices her body language, apparently—or, rather, unfortunately. “Hey,” she whisper-calls, “we promised to be honest to each other, didn’t we?”

 _That’s the easy part_ , Kanan wants to say. Honesty is admitting that she loves being with Mari all the time, 24/7, in June Gloom and Numazu summer, in Tokyo and San Francisco. Honesty is letting her body take what it wants— _Mari, Mari, always Mari_ —and letting it be possessed in return. Honesty is taking Mari’s slap and embracing Mari whenever she can, whenever Mari asks. The harder part is admitting how much it troubles her to have Mari close, knowing that she doesn’t have even a half of what the world can offer Mari—dresses that cost her whole tuition, newly released convertibles, residence here and there, a business empire, and an adoring audience. The hardest part is, well, admitting that in spite of that all, _because of that all_ , she wants Mari even more.

“Ask me again,” she says.

Mari raises her head. “Ask you what?”

“If you,” she halts, swallowing, hesitating, then pushes through, “you know. If you have another function coming.”

She’s been given the privilege to witness it, years ago, when she was younger but no less stupid: the way Mari frowns in confusion, then the way her face lights up in realization, then how her eyes just shine in pure joy. And just like back then, Mari springs and tackles her. This time, however, Mari is all hungry mouth and eager lips, peppering and stealing and laying her claim to Kanan in kisses.

“But let me know two months in advance!” she squeaks. “Mari? Are you listening? Mari!”

“You have no idea,” Mari breathes out, only stopping to kiss and kiss Kanan more, “no idea how much,” more kisses, more pauses, more kisses, “how much—” In the end she gives up speaking at all and just focuses on kissing Kanan.

Not that Kanan complains.

Eventually, she has to stop Mari because, see, it’s four o’clock, Mari needs to get some sleep, there’s a huge chance Dia is going to be mad if she doesn’t, and, you see, Mari has started climbing onto Kanan’s lap and Kanan has started peeling off Mari’s bathrobe, and she knows ten out of ten times it won’t end up until they get each other off at least twice. She turns her head just right in time before Mari can dive in for another deep, open-mouthed kiss, earning her a whine and a pout.

“Not fair,” Mari says breathlessly, shifting, undulating, grinding on Kanan’s lap.

She simply reaches into the pocket of her jeans for her cellphone. After a short dial tone, Dia’s brusque, sleep-hoarse voice greets them. “What is it this time?”

Kanan puts on the speaker, saying, “The child doesn’t want to behave.” It earns her a glare from Mari and a disbelieving growl from Dia.

“Tell the child I’m going to kill her until she dies a thousand deaths.”

“Alright. Thanks, Dia.” Kanan ends the call, puts her cellphone on the nightstand, and turns to Mari. “You heard Dia.”

Mari drops her head onto Kanan’s shoulder, whining amidst the tiny licks and bites she dots on the patch of skin there. “I can’t sleep like this,” she grumbles, takes one of Kanan’s hands off of her waist, and slides it between her own legs. “Take responsibility.”

Mari is so wet it’s obscene, and Kanan’s brain stops filtering her words. “How come you’re this wet?”

“Can you not be so crass?” Mari then cuts herself off when Kanan’s fingers slide past and under the hem of her underwear and moans loudly.

 _That_ , Kanan thinks, is crass.

Mari instructs her where and how to touch, clutching at Kanan’s shoulders, clawing at her breasts, skillfully stroking, squeezing, kneading, teasing her over the sweater. She knows Mari just can’t get enough of them, and she can’t get enough of Mari. So it’s a win-win situation when she latches onto the joint between Mari’s shoulder and neck and sucks, and Mari grinds down on her stomach and squeezes her breasts harder. Mari’s panting in her ear tempts her to relieve herself, but she knows if she acts on it in a few hours Dia will have to commit not one but two homicides.

It doesn’t take much—a few strokes, muffled moans mixed with giggles, and one last kiss—to bring Mari over the edge. Mari strains and thrashes and then gives a soft, satisfied moan just before her body sinks into Kanan’s. She remains on top of her as Kanan strokes her matted hair and kisses the sweat from her brows, much more gently now than before. “Definitely my favorite workout,” she says, pushing herself up to land a kiss on one corner of Kanan’s mouth, “with my favorite trainer.”

“Crass.” Despite the word, Kanan smiles, taking into memory the strands of blond hair plastered across Mari’s forehead, the flush on her cheeks, and her moist, parted lips. She stops Mari when Mari reaches down between her legs. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. Though not fully buying it, Mari relents and lays her head on Kanan’s chest.

It takes Mari another couple of minutes before she opens her eyes and looks up at Kanan with a gentle expression. “Let’s try this again,” she mumbles. At Kanan’s raised eyebrows, she continues, “The group is sponsoring [the Bogliasco Foundation’s artist residence](http://www.bfny.org/) this year—some kind of a retreat for about ten fellows, and I will be representing my dad at the reception night. Less than an hour from my grandparents’ house in Genoa. Beautiful beach. A much, much smaller audience, mostly people of arts. If you don’t like it, I promise we can leave right after my address.” Her voice takes a more hesitant tone. “Will you? Come with me to Bogliasco, I mean?”

Her first reaction is to ask when the event will be, how many people exactly will be attending, who will be in the audience, what she should wear, whether Mari’s grandparents will be there, and all that jazz, but she quells them down. And nods. And smiles. Which wins her a much, much wider smile from Mari. “I’ll still be a pain about it, though,” she quickly adds. What she wouldn’t give to see that smile everyday. Dear gods, what she wouldn’t give. “Now sleep. I wouldn’t want Dia to deal with a cranky baby during meeting.” She’s halfway pulling the blanket over Mari when she hears Mari snort loudly. “What?”

“Dia just doesn’t want to miss the brunch because our new brand ambassador is also going to be there,” Mari says.

“Who?”

“Ms Ayase? [Top model](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8435932/chapters/19327054), former school idol, μ's’ Elichika, the one Dia makes a personal shrine for? I haven’t told you?”

“What?”

“Oh dear, now I’m worried about your dissertation if you could only come up with single-word replies.”

She pinches both of Mari’s cheeks. “Shut it.”

Their combined laughter dissolves into quieter giggles then into hushed hums. The combination of the night’s event, alcohol, and the orgasm exhaust Mari; that much Kanan can see. Within minutes, Mari is fast asleep. Kanan looks at the digital clock on the nightstand. In a few hours she will have to wake Mari up. She will make her coffee, rouse Mari again because, being the late riser she is, Mari will have fallen asleep again, and put the coffee mug in Mari’s hand. Then she will sit behind Mari while Mari gathers her spirit for the day. Then she will kiss her once before ushering her to the bathroom, once again when she helps Mari towel herself, and again finally before they have to open the door for Dia.

Four thirty-five in the morning.

They will be alright.

-.-.-

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> AN:
> 
> I started writing this because little is known about Mari’s paternal family, and I imagine Kanan would be uncomfortable with being in the spotlight about their relationship, much less with an audience unrelated to the arts, hence The Bogliasco Foundation Fellowship, where two mentors of mine have been to.
> 
> To some extent, this was also my love letter to San Francisco. I hope you enjoy the clickable links as well.
> 
> Your feedback is much appreciated and cherished!


End file.
